The Golden Legend Part 21

(_They pa.s.s on_.)

AT THE FOOT OF THE ALPS.

_A halt under the trees at noon_.

_Prince Henry_ Here let us pause a moment in the trembling Shadow and suns.h.i.+ne of the roadside trees, And, our tired horses in a group a.s.sembling, Inhale long draughts of this delicious breeze Our fleeter steeds have distanced our attendants; They lag behind us with a slower pace; We will await them under the green pendants Of the great willows in this shady place.

Ho, Barbarossa! how thy mottled haunches Sweat with this canter over hill and glade!

Stand still, and let these overhanging branches Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with shade!

_Elsie._ What a delightful landscape spreads before us, Marked with a whitewashed cottage here and there!

And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o'er us, Blossoms of grapevines scent the sunny air.

_Prince Henry._ Hark! what sweet sounds are those, whose accents holy Fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet!

_Elsie._ It is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly On their long journey, with uncovered feet.

_Pilgrims (chaunting the Hymn of St. Hildebert)_ Me receptet Sion illa, Sion David, urbs tranquilla, Cujus faber auctor lucis, Cujus portae lignum crucis, Cujus claves lingua Petri, Cujus cives semper laeti, Cujus muri lapis vivus, Cujus custos Rex festivus!

_Lucifer (as a Friar in the procession)._ Here am I, too, in the pious band, In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite dressed!

The soles of my feet are as hard and tanned As the conscience of old Pope Hildebrand, The Holy Satan, who made the wives Of the bishops lead such shameful lives.

All day long I beat my breast, And chaunt with a most particular zest The Latin hymns, which I understand Quite as well, I think, as the rest.

And at night such lodging in barns and sheds, Such a hurly-burly in country inns, Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins!

Of all the contrivances of the time For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime, There is none so pleasing to me and mine As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine!

_Prince Henry._ If from the outward man we judge the inner, And cleanliness is G.o.dliness, I fear A hopeless reprobate, a hardened sinner, Must be that Carmelite now pa.s.sing near.

_Lucifer._ There is my German Prince again, Thus far on his journey to Salern, And the lovesick girl, whose heated brain Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain; But it's a long road that has no turn!

Let them quietly hold their way, I have also a part in the play.

But first I must act to my heart's content This mummery and this merriment, And drive this motley flock of sheep Into the fold, where drink and sleep The jolly old friars of Benevent.

Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh To see these beggars hobble along, Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff, Chanting their wonderful piff and paff, And, to make up for not understanding the song, Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong!

Were it not for my magic garters and staff, And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff, And the mischief I make in the idle throng, I should not continue the business long.

_Pilgrims (chaunting)._ In hac uibe, lux solennis, Ver aeternum, pax perennis, In hac odor implens caelos, In hac semper festum melos!

_Prince Henry._ Do you observe that monk among the train, Who pours from his great throat the roaring ba.s.s, As a cathedral spout pours out the rain, And this way turns his rubicund, round face?

_Elsie._ It is the same who, on the Strasburg square, Preached to the people in the open air.

_Prince Henry._ And he has crossed o'er mountain, field, and fell, On that good steed, that seems to bear him well, The hackney of the Friars of Orders Gray, His own stout legs! He, too, was in the play, Both as King Herod and Ben Israel.

Good morrow, Friar!

_Friar Cuthbert._ Good morrow, n.o.ble Sir!

_Prince Henry._ I speak in German, for, unless I err, You are a German.

_Friar Cuthbert._ I cannot gainsay you.

But by what instinct, or what secret sign, Meeting me here, do you straightway divine That northward of the Alps my country lies?

_Prince Henry._ Your accent, like St, Peter's, would betray you, Did not your yellow beard and your blue eyes, Moreover, we have seen your face before, And heard you preach at the Cathedral door On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg square We were among the crowd that gathered there, And saw you play the Rabbi with great skill, As if, by leaning o'er so many years To walk with little children, your own will Had caught a childish att.i.tude from theirs, A kind of stooping in its form and gait, And could no longer stand erect and straight.

Whence come you now?

_Friar Cuthbert._ From the old monastery Of Hirschau, in the forest; being sent Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent, To see the image of the Virgin Mary, That moves its holy eyes, and sometimes speaks, And lets the piteous tears run down its cheeks, To touch the hearts of the impenitent.

_Prince Henry._ O, had I faith, as in the days gone by, That knew no doubt, and feared no mystery!

_Lucifer (at a distance)._ Ho, Cuthbert! Friar Cuthbert!

_Friar Cuthbert._ Farewell, Prince!

I cannot stay to argue and convince.

_Prince Henry._ This is indeed the blessed Mary's land, Virgin and Mother of our dear Redeemer!

All hearts are touched and softened at her name; Alike the bandit, with the b.l.o.o.d.y hand, The priest, the prince, the scholar, and the peasant, The man of deeds, the visionary dreamer, Pay homage to her as one ever present!

And even as children, who have much offended A too indulgent father, in great shame, Penitent, and yet not daring unattended To go into his presence, at the gate Speak with their sister, and confiding wait Till she goes in before and intercedes; So men, repenting of their evil deeds, And yet not venturing rashly to draw near With their requests an angry father's ear, Offer to her their prayers and their confession, And she for them in heaven makes intercession.

And if our Faith had given us nothing more Than this example of all womanhood, So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good, So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure, This were enough to prove it higher and truer Than all the creeds the world had known before.

_Pilgrims (chaunting afar off)_. Urbs ccelestis, urbs beata, Supra petram collocata, Urbs in portu satis tuto De longinquo te saluto, Te saluto, te suspiro, Te affecto, te requiro!

THE INN AT GENOA.

_A terrace overlooking the sea. Night._

_Prince Henry._ It is the sea, it is the sea, In all its vague immensity, Fading and darkening in the distance!

Silent, majestical, and slow, The white s.h.i.+ps haunt it to and fro, With all their ghostly sails unfurled, As phantoms from another world Haunt the dim confines of existence!

But ah! how few can comprehend Their signals, or to what good end From land to land they come and go!

Upon a sea more vast and dark The spirits of the dead embark, All voyaging to unknown coasts.

We wave our farewells from the sh.o.r.e, And they depart, and come no more, Or come as phantoms and as ghosts.

Above the darksome sea of death Looms the great life that is to be, A land of cloud and mystery, A dim mirage, with shapes of men Long dead, and pa.s.sed beyond our ken.

Awe-struck we gaze, and hold our breath Till the fair pageant vanisheth, Leaving us in perplexity, And doubtful whether it has been A vision of the world unseen, Or a bright image of our own Against the sky in vapors thrown.

_Lucifer (singing from the sea)_. Thou didst not make it, thou canst not mend it, But thou hast the power to end it!

The sea is silent, the sea is discreet, Deep it lies at thy very feet; There is no confessor like unto Death!

Thou canst not see him, but he is near; Thou needest not whisper above thy breath, And he will hear; He will answer the questions, The vague surmises and suggestions, That fill thy soul with doubt and fear!

_Prince Henry_. The fisherman, who lies afloat, With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, Is singing softly to the Night!

But do I comprehend aright The meaning of the words he sung So sweetly in his native tongue?

Ah, yes! the sea is still and deep.

All things within its bosom sleep!

A single step, and all is o'er; A plunge, a bubble, and no more; And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be free From martyrdom and agony.